


Who the Hell Is Bucky?

by Aberstan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Awkward meeting, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Other, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-22 05:38:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6067197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aberstan/pseuds/Aberstan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's hard enough to put yourself back together after years of being broken. It's even harder when you're on the run.</p><p>Or, how the Winter Soldier finds a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hiding Out

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place just after the end of Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

Their first meeting does not go well.

He is on the run again - he always seems to be running from someone these days - and they are so close, so terribly close to catching him. He's sprinting behind a row of townhouses. Neat little back-yards with neat wooden fences are flashing past him. It's mid-morning on a weekday, and most of the townhouses are closed and dark, but as he approaches one he sees that the back door is open. There is no time for him to stop and think about what he means to do. He certainly does not think that this is someone's home. There is a door open and a place to hide; it is as simple as that.

He vaults the fence, dives inside the townhouse and closes the door, taking care not to slam it because that would draw attention. He locks it and closes the blinds, and leans heavily against the wall next to the door. For a few seconds he closes his eyes and tries to catch his breath. And that is when he hears the little gasp.

The home's owner stands frozen at the other end of a short hallway, in the entrance of a kitchen. She is holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a book in the other, and is staring at him with wide eyes. Everything about her in that instant reminds him of a deer that has suddenly caught the scent of a hunter. He slowly holds up his hands to show them empty.

"Please," he says, and his voice comes out harsh, rusty. He hasn't really had a chance to sit and talk with anyone in a long time. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

She inches backward, and he can hear the quick, sharp little gasps as she tries to breathe normally. He curses inwardly and slowly comes off the wall.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he says again.

"What do you want?" she whispers. The quality of her voice suggests not that she's trying to be quiet, but that she can't seem to manage more than a whisper at the moment. He has frightened her, badly. He curses himself again.

"I just," he begins, and that's when the doorbell rings.

She jumps, splashing coffee everywhere and dropping the book. They both look at the front door, and then back at each other. They're both gauging the distance, weighing their chances. The doorbell rings again, and they both move at the same time.

She throws her coffee at him and sprints toward the front door. He hisses in pain as hot coffee splashes him, but he catches the mug in one hand as he lunges toward her. They collide; he pulls her close, pinning her arms to her sides and clapping a hand over her mouth as she draws breath to scream. What comes out instead is a terrified whimper.

"Please don't," he whispers. "I'm not here to hurt you."

She's trembling. There are tears in her eyes. She kicks and twists in his grasp, but he grits his teeth and holds on.

Someone knocks firmly on the door and he can see the shape of a head in the narrow frosted glass window. They both go still again, listening intently, and can hear voices speaking outside. Neither can make out the words, but he thinks he can pick up the gist. It's the ones who have been chasing him. His heart beats a little faster and he gulps. They haven't really made any noise. With any luck his pursuers haven't heard anything.

After a few tense moments his hunters leave. She makes a desperate little sound behind his hand, her breath tickling his palm, but no one comes crashing through the door. He waits a few moments more just to be certain, and then lets out a breath he had hardly been conscious of holding.

"I'm going to let go of you now," he says softly. "Please don't scream. Okay?"

After a second, she nods. He releases her and steps back. She jumps away from him, turning so that she can keep an eye on him as she continues backing away from him, widening the distance between them.

"Who the hell are you?" she demands. "What do you want?"

"Look, I'm sorry," he says quickly. "I just needed a place to hide."

She glares at him, clearly disbelieving. He can't exactly blame her. Why would she trust him? But he needs her to. He makes himself be calm. He tries to make himself as non-threatening as he can. He knows that it's probably way too late for this, but he tries anyway.

"What's your name?" he asks.

Her eyebrows draw together in a scowl, and her lips press into a thin line. She takes a deep breath and for a horrible instant he thinks she's going to scream until they come back...but then she lets it out again, slowly, steadying herself. There's fire in her eyes and just for a second she reminds him of someone else, someone he thinks he used to know. Then she speaks and it's gone.

"I don't want to tell you that," she replies, and her voice is quiet now...quiet and furious. "I want you out of my house."

"I understand. And I'll go; just please, please give me a few minutes to rest." When she narrows her eyes, he holds up his hands. "Just a short rest. Please. That's all I'm asking of you. Then I'll go and you'll never see me again, I promise."

A long, terrible silence draws out between them. But finally she lets out a little huff through her nose.

"Fine," she snaps, and holds out her hand. "Give me back my damn cup."

He's forgotten that he's been holding it since she threw it at him. He glances down at it briefly before passing it back over, keeping as far back from her as he can. She snatches the mug from him and warily moves into the kitchen. He starts to go after her, wanting to keep an eye on her in case she's going for a phone or a weapon, but a second later she reappears in the doorway and throws a towel at him.

"It's your fault I haven't had my coffee yet," she tells him. "You can clean it up."

He does it without argument. It's the least he can do. He still keeps an eye on her as she rinses out her mug. She is not reaching for a phone or a knife, and that's good. Fifteen minutes, he promises himself. No more than that. Fifteen minutes and he's out of here.

He hands the dirty towel back to her when he's done, and she passes him a cup of coffee. He takes it, astonished, but the look in her eyes tells him he had better not say anything. _This is weird enough for me_ , her eyes warn. _Don't make it worse_. He keeps his silence. They do not sit down. He keeps his place near the back door, while she stays near the opening of the kitchen.

"Why are they chasing you?" she asks, and he knows she is really asking, _Are you dangerous?_  


"It's complicated," he replies, and sips his coffee. Damn, it's good; better than anything he's tasted in weeks. "They aren't police, if that's what you're wondering."

"So who are they?"

"They're...they're dangerous."

"That's not an answer," she points out.

"No. But I don't want to get anyone else involved."

She scoffs, shaking her head. "Seriously? You break into my house and take me hostage, but you don't want to get me involved?"

He looks away from her, too tired and too on edge to be able to think of a reasonable argument. She has a valid point. But he can't tell her everything. For one thing it would take far too long. For another, she probably wouldn't believe him. And for a third, if he tells her and they find out, she'll become a loose end. He's not sure she won't be that anyway, just from talking to him. But he owes her something.

"They were holding me against my will," he says quietly. "I escaped, and so now they're after me." It's the simplest version of the truth he can think of, and he almost laughs out loud at how inadequate it is.

She frowns, thinking this over, but doesn't say anything else. They drink their coffee in silence. When he's finished he hands her his empty mug the way he handed her the towel: at arm's length, keeping his distance to show her he won't hurt her.

"Thank you," he tells her. "I'll go now."

He moves toward the back door again, keeping his eye on her. She watches him, warily, but stays put. He unlocks the door and peers outside. Luck, it seems, is with him; there is no sign of his pursuers. He lets out a little sigh of relief.

"You should lock the door behind me," he tells her. "Just in case."

"Just in case what?"

"In case someone else needs a place to hide."

He cannot believe he has just attempted to make a joke, and from the look on her face, neither can she. He clears his throat, not sure what he means to say until the words have already left him.

"My name is James," he says quietly, trying it out. "I'm sorry I scared you."

He's out the door before she can reply. A few seconds later he hears the lock click behind him. He smiles a little without really understanding why, and starts running again.


	2. Coffee and Hot Dogs

The second time goes a little better.

It is about a week later. He has lost them for the time being, by trading luxuries like food and shelter for becoming invisible. No one looks twice at the homeless, not here. People's eyes skip over them, mentally deleting the undesirable element from their nice day out. _They_ would not expect him to hide this way, not with his reputation. It's not a perfect solution, but for now he is able to catch his breath and try to plan his next move. Thinking is hard; he's not used to it, not used to being _allowed_ to do it. The fact that he's beginning to remember things isn't helping. It's piecemeal and chaotic: a face here, a fact there. He can't really put it all together yet. He's not sure he wants to. He knows there are good things buried there, but the bad things...

There are just _so many_ bad things.

He's turning things over in his head, trying to put the pieces of himself together, when he sees the girl from the townhouse sitting at a little outdoor cafe across the street. She's a small, skinny blonde, and just for a second he sees someone else when he looks at her, someone so important that it makes him ache even though he can't remember why or who or when. He puts the past away and focuses on the present. _New_ familiar faces are still a strange thing for him. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail and she's wearing a blue dress under a light tan coat.

_(Something. Tip of his tongue. He almost has it.)_

He is watching her drink her coffee (she certainly does like her coffee, he thinks, and he smiles a little) when a man joins her at her table and begins talking to her. She doesn't look happy about it, and he's beginning to wonder why she doesn't just tell the man to leave (she had no trouble telling _him_  to get the hell out of her house, and _he'd_ broken in and physically accosted her) when the man suddenly reaches out and grabs her arm.

He's not thinking now. He's moving. There's nothing to this but instinct and an old anger for which he can no longer remember the reason.

Their argument is low and fierce, and nobody around them is paying any attention; if anything, everyone around them is concentrating very hard on _not_  noticing anything. This sharpens his anger, begins forging it into something new. She tries to wrench her arm free but the man holds on, and there is a look on her face of mingled fury, fear, and pain. And yet no one else is moving to intervene. As he approaches (still unseen, still one of the invisible undesirable), he begins to pick up words:

"--many times you want me to say I'm sorry, huh?" The man's voice is quiet and menacing. "You want me to say it again? _I'm sorry_."

"You're just sorry I _caught_  you," she hisses. "I'm through talking about this, now let _go_ of me."

"No, we're not done yet. We're not over until I say we're over." And the look in the man's face when he says this is so hideous, so _evil_  (and oh God, so familiar, he's seen that look so many times on so many faces) that it snaps what's left of his control.

He closes the distance and grabs back of the man's neck, and begins to squeeze. She's looking up at him with wide eyes, her expression one of astonished disbelief. The man releases her arm and begins clawing at the fingers on his neck.

"Leave. Her. Alone." It's hard to get the words out, but it's important to do so. He knows he could keep squeezing until he crushes the man's neck, and has to stop himself from doing it. That's not what he does. That's not what he _is_. "Understand?"

"Yeah," the man gasps. "Okay."

Oh, and _now_  the people around them are taking notice. There's yelling and talking and chairs scraping across pavement, and years of experience tells him that it's about to become bad for him; he's about to be punished for his behavior. Indeed, there are hands batting at him, but they're tentative and ineffective. He lets go of the man and steps back, and the man is gasping and rubbing the back of his neck. He looks at her, and she's looking at him in frank astonishment, and then she's on her feet and he can hear her saying _No, I'm all right_ , and _No, it's fine_ , and _No, thank you_ as people crowd around her to see if she's all right. ( _Where were you all a second ago_ , he wants to shout, but does not dare.) Nobody is grabbing him and holding him down. Even so, there are too many people around him now and it's too much attention. He walks away, his head down and his shoulders hunched. His heart is pounding and part of him can't quite believe that he's not _back there_ , not being hurt again. But he didn't kill the man. It's important to remember that he didn't kill the man.

And there are quick little footsteps behind him. Just one set, _click-click-clicking_  along to catch up with him. He glances down at her.

"Are you following me now?" she asks softly.

"No."

"Oh." She frowns, and then sighs. "Well, thank you."

He nods. He's not sure what to say. What _do_ people say in situations like this? _Are_  there even situations like this? She seems just as much at a loss as he is, at least. So there's that.

"Look," she says. "I don't know who you are. But..." She lets out a little breath, a soft exasperated sound. "Let me get you something to eat, at least," she finishes lamely, and grimaces at herself. It is oddly endearing and again, just for a second, he feels like he's with a ghost. "It's the least I can do."

He stops. This is new. 

"Okay," he says.

She lets him choose and this is so unexpected, so beyond what he's used to, that he just points at the nearest food cart without even looking at what they sell. It turns out to be hot dogs and lemonade, and she sits with him on a bench while he eats. They don't talk, but he's used to that. The hot dogs aren't the best, but it's a hell of a lot better than what he's been living on lately. The lemonade is nice. _This_  is nice.

But there's a voice in the back of his mind whispering that this is dangerous, this is _wrong_ , any second now they'll be here and you'll be back there, so you better run now, _run_. 

"I should go," he says when he's finished. "Thank you for the food."

"Thank you for what you did," she replies.

They nod a little, and then he sees her come to some decision.

"My name is Sara," she tells him. 

And with that she's walking away, and he's left sitting on a bench with her name ringing in his head. 


	3. A Safe Space

 

He's sitting under an overpass and allowing himself, for the first time since everything blew up, to think about the man from the bridge. 

He starts by approaching it from a cold perspective, by assessing the situation as he would assess the details of a mission. Just look at the facts first. The man from the bridge had been tall and muscular (like him) and had been able to  _fight_ (like him). The man from the bridge was faster and stronger than other people (like he was). The man from the bridge was scared but willing to stand his ground and fight despite being outnumbered and outgunned, but  _not_ willing to put other people at risk. The man from the bridge had fire in his eyes and determination in the set of his jaw, and when the man from the bridge saw _his_ face, he had faltered for the first time. He had frozen. He had said a word, a name, and everything in his expression and posture pointed to this name belonging to... _to_   _me._

_Bucky?  
_  
_Who the hell is Bucky?_ He had asked the man on the bridge this question, and he asks it again now, silently, of himself: 

_Who the hell is Bucky?_

His keepers had never called him anything.  _You_ , they addressed him.  _You have shaped the century; you will do it again; you will do as you're told_.  But never a name. He has not been called by a name until the man on the bridge: the reckless punk with fire in his eyes. He remembers that when he asked his keepers about the man on the bridge they had punished him and taken his mind away again.  _But I did know him, and he knew me._ And when he saw the man again, the man's story remained constant:  _I know you. You know me; you've known me your whole life._ And the man had refused to fight him anymore.

_You know me._

It's hard to shake off so many years of conditioning. It's hard to forget how many times he's been told that he is no one. He is not a person. He is a tool. He is a weapon. Weapons do not have names.

_Your name is James Buchanan Barnes..._

His hands are beginning to shake and he's beginning to get restless. He gets up and starts walking along the highway, keeping to the ditches and out of sight. The cars roaring past are a comforting sound.

_...with you 'til the end of the line._

All of this makes his head hurt, so he thinks about Sara instead. He doesn't know anything about her, except that she likes coffee and isn't afraid to speak her mind, even when the other guy is bigger and scarier than she is. He likes that about her. He knows she isn't one of  _them,_ and that she believes in fairness. She's the only person in the world who is not part of some nebulous past he is only now beginning to half-recall, or part of  _them_. She doesn't know him as anything but James, the guy who broke into her house and then defended her from a bullying creep.

"My name is James," he says out loud. "James. I'm James. James is my name."

It feels strange. It had felt strange when he said it to Sara the first time he met her, and it feels strange now. He's not supposed to have a name; you don't name your weapons. Maybe if he keeps saying it, it will feel natural, the way Sara's own name had rolled off her tongue.

He is walking back toward the area where she lives, but he doesn't realize it until the the absence of the highway-sounds finally sinks in. She doesn't live in the main city, but in one of the little suburban areas beyond it. It's a quiet place, where people live quiet lives. Whenever they woke him up and put him to work, he wondered about the people who lived outside this endless secret war. But he's never (almost never) had the opportunity to interact with any of those people until now.

He hopes she isn't angry with him.

He finds her townhouse easily enough, and jumps into her backyard again. There are lights on inside, and the warm glow makes him feel a little better. This time, though, the back door is closed and locked. He smiles, and it feels good to smile, if a little strange. He's never really had a lot of chances to smile. He reaches up and knocks gently on the door, taking care not to break the glass. And a few moments later there she is again. She looks up at him through the glass for a second, clearly surprised, and then she opens the door.

"Hi," she says.

"Hi," he replies.

He realizes, belatedly, that he had not thought this through. She seems wary, but not afraid. He takes that as a good sign.

"I'm sorry," he says at last. "I didn't know where else to go."

She stares at him for a minute, and finally sighs and shakes her head. "Oh, my God. You look pitiful. Come on in."

And then, incredibly, she's stepping aside to let him pass. She's _inviting him into her home_.

The words _reckless punk_ flit through his mind again, and the smile returns. Sara shuffles past him toward the kitchen, pausing long enough to ask him whether he prefers soda or water. Her tone brooks no negotiation; he will be receiving some kind of drink, her tone tells him, so he better get used to the idea. And then they're sitting down in her living room, each with a can of soda in hand. He's chosen the old-looking recliner; it's surprisingly comfortable. She settles onto the sofa, folding her legs under herself and turning off the television in the middle of the program. There's a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table and a few crumpled-up napkins around it.

"I've disturbed you," he says.

"It's Netflix; I can pick up where I left off," she replies. 

"Oh."

"You don't watch a lot of Netflix?"

He shakes his head and sips his drink, a little surprised by how damned _fizzy_ it is but trying to hide it. Sara nods a little and pops open her own can.

"Okay," she says, and it has the ring of an Opening Statement. He eyes her warily. "Clearly, you've got a lot going on. I'm guessing you lost those...whoever they were?"

"For the moment," he agrees.

"Right. Cards on the table here, Jim--"

He blinks. "Jim?"

"You said your name is James, right?" He nods, and Sara looks at him curiously. "Nobody ever called you Jim for short?"

"Nobody ever called me anything," he replies. "You don't name your weapons."

He freezes, unable to believe he's said this out loud. She stares at him, frowning.

"Okay," she says slowly. "Well...do you mind if I call you Jim?"

He considers. _Jim_ feels easier. _Jim_ is not _James Buchanan Barnes. Jim_ is not _Bucky_. Jim is something new. He can be Jim. And it's so strange to be asked instead of told. 

"I don't mind," he says.

"Great. Well, cards on the table, Jim: I don't really know what to do here. I mean, _Miss Manners_ doesn't exactly cover this kind of thing, you know? But you haven't hurt me and you stood up for me when my asshole ex was getting in my face, and honestly I think you're probably even more lost than I am here. So why don't you tell me what's going on and I'll listen, and I'm not saying I can help, but what the hell."

He blinks. "You talk a lot."

"I do that when I'm nervous."

"Are you nervous?"

Sara laughs, a short yip of a sound. "I've got a homeless fugitive in my living room, Jim; yes, I'm nervous."

"Sorry."

"It's fine. Just tell me what's up and we'll go from there."

And as he takes a breath to tell her, he finds that he's locking up; the words are sticking in his throat and choking him, and he can't do it. There are a hundred reasons why he can't tell her, but most of them can be condensed into two great overwhelming fears. First, that _they_  will find out, and eliminate her. And second, that she will look at him and see a monster. Both scenarios end in him losing the only person who isn't trying to make him be something else. He can't do it. His heart begins pounding and it feels like there isn't enough air in the room. He's gasping like a fish out of water, sputtering out the words "Can't, I can't, I, I can't," in an endless feedback loop so that the words are just meaningless sound now. Sara's face has gone from exasperated to concerned to outright alarmed, and she is suddenly right in front of him. She takes his hands in hers and her eyes are looking right into his. 

"Hey, it's okay," she's saying, and her voice is soothing, comforting. "It's okay, you're okay. Look at me, just breathe. You're okay." He shakes his head, but she squeezes his hands. "Okay, look around the room," she tells him. "Look around and tell me five things you can see."

"I...what?"

"Five things you can see in here. C'mon."

He's breathing hard, but he looks around. "Table...sofa...television. Bowl. Poster."

"Good. That's good. Now tell me four things you can feel."

He gulps. "Chair. Hand. Floor. Clothes."

It's a little easier to breathe now, and his heartbeat isn't so fast. Sara doesn't let go of his hands. She has him list off three things he can hear, then two things he can smell, and finally one thing he can taste. By the time he's done he feels better, if exhausted, and Sara's looking relieved.

"Sorry I asked," she tells him, and goes back to her spot on the sofa.

"How did you do that?" he asks, and she shrugs.

"Friend of mine used to have these anxiety attacks," she says. "She said it helped to kind of ground her." She's watching him, and there's sympathy in her face. She gives him a faint little smile. "Look, you don't have to talk about it right now. It's okay. Just tell me one thing, and I'll drop it for now. Okay?"

He nods.

"Okay. Am I in danger from you being here?"

He hesitates, and nods again. She frowns.

"Will I still be in danger if you leave?"

He considers this, and finally sighs. "Most likely."

Her lips press into a thin line, and she squares her shoulders. "Okay then," she says, and stands up. "I'm making dinner," she announces.

"I'll--"

"Sit your ass right there until it's ready." Her eyes are flashing fire again. _Reckless punk,_ he thinks, but doesn't say it. "You're in no shape to be out and about. Do you like spaghetti?"

He sighs. "Sure."

She marches into the kitchen to get started.

And later, once their plates are in the sink and he's showered and his clothes are in the wash (he's _ripe,_ she tells him, and will accept no arguments; her ex left some clothes and they fit him well enough), he's lying on her couch and staring up at the ceiling, and trying to get a handle on all this. For the first time since...since  _ever_...he feels okay. Things...might be okay. He still doesn't have the answers, and he's still on the run. But for right now, he has a safe place to stay. For right now, he has a friend.

And for right now, that's enough.


	4. Likes and Dislikes

After their third meeting, things begin to change. 

He gets into the habit of thinking of himself as Jim, and knows that this is a temporary thing: a Band-Aid for his sanity. He knows (and Sara keeps reminding him) that sooner or later he's going to have to face the things he's running from, both physical and mental. But he likes being Jim. It's easier to be Jim. And as Jim, through Jim, he begins discovering little things about himself. Not the big things about his past - he's not there yet, and maybe he'll never be - but little things.

He likes his coffee plain and black, and he likes drinking it in the silent hours just before everyone wakes up: when the world is still sleeping but the sun is beginning to creep over the horizon. He doesn't like adding a bunch of extra stuff to his scrambled eggs (he watches Sara add cheese and ham and chopped up peppers and onions to hers in the morning, and wonders why the hell she doesn't just make an omelet), but he does like putting both butter and jam on his toast. He doesn't like being on his back (it reminds him too much of the chair they put him in when they took his mind away), but he likes slouching on Sara's couch with her as they watch television. He doesn't like the sloppy clothes Sara's ex left, and he doesn't like his own ragged uniform either. Sara finds him clothes he _does_ like and buys them for him; he protests, but she gives him That Look and he shuts up about it, but he moves all her coffee cups to the top shelf of the cupboard while she's at work the next day, and when she discovers this she swears at him and he laughs until he thinks he's going to bust. He likes laughing. He's not so crazy about it when, after he calls her Short-stack once, she smacks a refrigerator magnet onto his arm. But he likes that she's not afraid of him anymore.

He doesn't like sleeping and he  _hates_ his dreams. When he dreams he begins to see it all again, every period of waking in between his frozen sleeps and everything they did to him and everything they had him do for them, and what he sees is too awful to bear. Once he wakes up in a cold sweat, panting and ready to bolt, only to see Sara in the living room, standing wisely out of reach. He's breathing hard and trying to tell her he's okay, but it's a lie, and they both know it. Then she sits down next to him without saying anything, and he finds that just having her there is enough.

He likes having a friend.

Sara doesn't push him to talk about himself and what happened to him, but she's not ignorant. He knows she's been piecing it all together. He knows that she's got a pretty clear sense of who, of _what_ he was. She also knows that there's a lot more to it than what's been reported. He hasn't been able to look at what was leaked; he's afraid of what he'll find. But he knows it's all out there for anyone to see. The government might be scrambling to take it back and regain some form of security, but the genie's out of the bottle now.

He knows he can't stay with her forever, and she knows it, too.

And one evening about two weeks later she pauses their program and looks at him very solemnly. Almost immediately his heart begins to beat faster and his mouth starts to dry out.

"Jim, tomorrow I want to show you something," she tells him. "I don't think you're going to like it. But I think you need to see it."

"What is it?" he asks. But he doesn't want to know. He thinks he knows what she's going to say, and he doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to know.  _Just let me be Jim a while longer. I can't be_ him  _yet. I'm not ready to be_ him _._  


Sara hesitates, chewing on her lower lip.

"It's an exhibit at the Smithsonian," she says slowly. "About...Captain America."

He closes his eyes and sees the man from the bridge.  _You've known me your whole life_. _Please don't make me do this_. 

"You'll come with me, right?" he asks her.

"I'll come with you," she tells him.

He nods. "Okay."


	5. My Name is Bucky Barnes

There are too many people and he feels naked and exposed. He's got his collar turned up and his hat pulled down, and Sara's right here with him, but he feels like any second Hydra agents will surround them and take them away and then it'll be worse than before, because he'll have damned Sara to his fate. She's got her right arm linked with his left and is walking confidently through the crowd, a determined little tugboat pulling a reluctant tanker.   

He wouldn't walk through front security. He was very firm about this. She went in the front and he found her inside, and hasn't left her side since.

How are there so many goddamn  _people_ here?

He freezes when he sees that they're approaching the exhibit.

"It's okay," Sara tells him. "I'm right here."

He gulps and nods. He's not ready for this. He is _not_ ready to face this. In a second he's going to turn to her and say,  _You know what, Short-stack, I don't think I'm up for this, I think I'd rather go somewhere else. What do you say we just take off and maybe catch a show or a game, anything, just please don't make me go in there._

So they go into the exhibit, and at least it's not so bright in here. Small favors, right? Sure. He's sweating nervously. God, he's not ready for this.

He's surrounded by ghosts in here, and he's hearing voices of long-dead people. Friends, comrades, brothers-in-arms. He's hearing the recordings, seeing the video, but it's more than that; he's _remembering_ them, remembering being with them, part of them...and it hurts. God, it hurts. It hurts to remember them, and it hurts to know that for the longest time, he hasn't had these memories. They were so important to him and he _forgot_. If it wasn't for Sara at his side he's certain that he'd lose it.

And there's Steve. Everywhere, Steve.

Here's Steve as he was before he enlisted, a little shrimp of a kid with a shock of wheat-blond hair and eyes too big for his face. Here's Steve in his uniform, looking like a little kid playing dress-up in his dad's army clothes. And here's Steve after they put him through the procedure, tall and broad and perfect: the embodiment of Goodness, practically a knight in shining armor. Steve in his uniform again, looking like a perfect soldier in every way. Steve in his ridiculous Captain America stage costume. Steve in his  _other_ costume, his modified uniform, the one he adopted when he came to rescue everyone from the Hydra facility.

_"I thought you were dead," Steve said, and his voice was soft and small and about the only thing that seemed right because he was too_ big _, too fucking_ big  _to be Stevie, and anyway how could Steve be here? Steve was home, Steve was safe, and he had to be dreaming. They did things to him and so he was dreaming now, dreaming of Steve to get away from it._

_"I thought you were smaller," Bucky replied, and knew that somehow he was awake. Steve was here and they were getting out._

And suddenly he's face to face with himself, but it's all wrong. The face is handsome and clean-shaven and so much younger; the eyes have not yet seen true horror. The hair is cut short and neatly combed. He's wearing a uniform, too, and it looks good on him. There's a hint of a smile in his eyes even though he's looking seriously at the camera. There's a hint of mischief. This is a guy you could laugh with, could have a drink with, could take a couple of girls and go dancing with.

_This_ is James Buchanan Barnes.  _This_ is Bucky.

This is what Hydra stole from him.

_"Best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield,"_ the recording says as he stares at his own face. He wishes it would stop. " _Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country."_

If only it had just been his life. If it had just been his stupid  _life_ then he wouldn't have had to suffer like this.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, staring at the piece about himself. It feels like an eternity, and it feels like no time at all. But then Sara gently taps his arm, and he blinks, and something hot rolls down his face. He looks down at her and she's looking solemnly back up at him, and now he knows that it's Steve she reminds him of, of course, it's always been Steve. Her eyes are grave and far too understanding.

"You okay?" she asks softly.

He doesn't trust himself to answer. He nods, and the little line between her eyebrows appears. They both know he's not okay, he's pretty fucking  _far_ from okay. But she smiles a little and shrugs. Playing along, preserving his dignity. He loves her a little for it.

"I dunno about you, Jim, but I could go for a drink," she tells him. "You?"

"Yeah," he says hoarsely. "Sure. Meet you outside."

She nods, and slips her arm from his. For a split second panic threatens to swallow him whole and he almost reaches for her arm again, but he keeps his hands in his pockets and just watches her ponytail bouncing as she follows the crowd back to the doors. When he can't see her anymore he turns back to look James Buchanan Barnes in the face again. The ghost of himself almost-smiles back.

"I'm not...I don't know how to be you anymore," he whispers. "But we'll make it right. Somehow we'll make it right."

He melts into the crowd, and disappears into a shadow. Ten minutes later he and Sara are walking back to her car. She's talking about something that happened at work the other day, and they both know he isn't really listening but he appreciates it all the same. She stops at a drive-thru on the way home and orders them both cheeseburgers, fries, and chocolate shakes. As she drives she turns on some music and sings along, nodding her head and playing imaginary instruments on the steering wheel. He can't help but smile as he watches her.  _Steve would like you_ , he thinks, and suddenly wants to cry. He jams his metal fist against his mouth to stop himself from doing so.

How can he ever face Steve again? How can he ever face  _anyone_ again?

"Cards on the table, Jim," Sara says after they've eaten. "You're about to take off again, aren't you?

"Yeah," he replies.

She nods. "Tomorrow?"

"Yeah."

She nods again. "Okay."

They're quiet for a while, watching  _Star Trek_ and lost in their own thoughts. He glances over at her.

"Hey," he says, and she looks at him. "Thanks."

She smiles. "You're welcome."

They don't say anything else. The episode ends, and Sara groans up off the sofa to get ready for bed. He calls a quiet good-night and she waves absently, shuffling up the stairs. A few seconds later he hears the water running in the bathroom upstairs.

He should go now, he thinks. Just go. Make it quick. Just like ripping off a bandage. Drawing it out won't help either one of them. But then on the other hand...he's exhausted, and his head's too full to think clearly. He'll be no use out there. So he peels off his shirt and pulls down the pillows and blankets Sara set aside for him, and stretches out to sleep.

When he wakes up it's still dark, but the sky has that eerie gray softness he likes so much. There's a neatly folded change of clothes on the recliner. And he can smell coffee.

He dresses and finds Sara in the kitchen, staring blearily at the machine as it percolates. A full knapsack is on the counter, neatly packed. His heart hurts, but for the first time since he can remember it hurts in a good way.

"Hey," he murmurs.

"Mmm," she replies, and he has to smile. Short-stack is not a morning person, will never be a morning person. Yet here she stands, determined to be here for him, and it means so much.

He stands beside her to wait for the coffee to brew, nudging her gently.

"You didn't have to do all this," he says.

She shrugs. "I know."

He sighs. "If it gets out that you've helped me--"

"I know."

_Give me strength. Just like him. Reckless little punks._ He can't quite remember the last time he felt this helpless exasperation, only that it had something to do with Steve, but the exasperation is tinged with pleasure. Reckless punks they may be, but somehow they're _his_ reckless punks. Sara glances up at him, and solemnly attaches a magnet to his left bicep. It surprises a laugh out of him, and she grins sleepily.

"You're a punk," he tells her.

"Yeah, yeah." The coffee's finished, and she's pouring them each a mug. Sara clinks her mug lightly against his and then breathes in the steam, closing her eyes briefly in contentment before she takes her first sip. When she opens them again, she looks a little more present. "You know where you're headed?" she asks him.

He shrugs. "Got a general idea. Probably shouldn't tell you. Just in case."

She nods as if she's expected nothing less. They drink their coffee, talking softly of nothing in particular. Then she pours him a travel mug and glares at him until he accepts it. He puts on the knapsack under the weight of that same glare. Sara hesitates, and then hugs him. He's startled for a second, but then he puts his arms around her and hugs her back. For a long moment they stay that way, and he tries to tell her without words how much this has meant to him, how grateful he is to her for what she's done for him. The thought crosses his mind that he doesn't _have_ to leave, but it's a treacherous thought. There's work to be done, and it can't be done here.

Then it seems there's nothing else to do. He steps back, smiles at her, and heads for the door.

"You'll lock it behind me, right?" he says, and she snorts laughter.

" _Yes_ ," she tells him. Her smile fades. "Good luck out there, Jim."

He nods a little, not really sure what he's about to say until the words have already left him.

"My name is Bucky Barnes," he says. "Thank you for everything."

And then he's out the door, and he's running again. Whether he's running to something or running from everything, he's not yet sure. But for the first time in a long time, he has a pretty good idea of who he is, and what he wants to be.


End file.
